


I wish I knew how to break the spell (Your eyes are like starlight)

by fitz_y



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Male Slash, Merlin Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-25
Updated: 2011-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 22:28:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitz_y/pseuds/fitz_y
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The city’s snowed in and shut down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I wish I knew how to break the spell (Your eyes are like starlight)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notfairytales](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=notfairytales).



> Written for [this kink meme prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/kinkme_merlin/18397.html?thread=17477341#t17477341). Once again, beta'ed by the lovely [](http://yllenk.livejournal.com/profile)[**yllenk**](http://yllenk.livejournal.com/). Usually the plot bunnies that bounce around breeding in my head are unhappy, fanged little beasties, and while I enjoy writing those little monsters, I thought that this time I’d push myself in a different direction and try my hand at writing Arthur/Merlin fluff. Really, this was a huge stretch for me.

“But see, the thing about German engineering is . . . the point is . . . Merlin? Merlin, are you listening to me?”

Arthur glances over at Merlin, who’s contorted himself into a tight ball on the couch across the room, one hand gripping his knees, the other fisted over his heart. His thin frame looks lost in his shapeless grey knit sweater, the wide neckline skimming over and accentuating his collarbones, the sleeves falling open to expose bony wrists. His eyes have drifted shut, his lashes dark against pale skin. His lips and jaw are slack, at rest, instead of forming his usual animated grimaces.

Arthur runs a hand through his hair, tries to remember how many mugs of mulled wine Merlin drank at Gwen and Lance’s Christmas party. He tries to remember how many mugs _he_ drank, and why he insisted on the frozen walk home that, no, their discussion about German versus Japanese cars absolutely could not be finished tomorrow, and that meant that Merlin simply had to come up to his flat and continue it now.

Hazy yellow-orange light from the street trickles in through the windows above the couch; in its warm glow, Merlin’s unruly hair and long lashes cast thin shadows on his face.

Arthur stumbles out of his wide leather armchair, drawing closer to the couch where Merlin’s curled in on himself like a kitten. All Merlin needs to do to complete the picture is sleepily cover his cold nose with his hand, and tuck his head farther in towards his chest.

Peering through the windowpane, Arthur looks down over bright snow falling on the hibernating city. The flakes are small, just miniscule spots in a whirlwind of white. In the beam of a floodlight planted in the car park across the street, Arthur can see the fierce wind battering the snow, first to the right, then to the left, whipping it into a fast dance with a silent, undetectable rhythm. Sometimes the flakes seem to be falling up, striving back towards the clouds, unwilling to rest in stillness on the ground.

The car park stands empty, save for one lone vehicle, its make unrecognizable under the hat of snow it has collected.

Everywhere, the harsh lines of the city have been softened, pavement and streets blanketed under snowdrifts. A few footprint trails zigzag across the street in uneven patterns, but there’s no other sign of life. The restaurants and shops have gone to sleep for the night, their windows dark, except for Killian’s on the corner. Soft light spills from the pub’s windows onto the pristine snow, and Arthur pictures the dark wood furniture, the smooth bar, a stout spicy with cloves and nutmeg. He rocks back on his heels and considers it, braving the storm so he can chat lazily with Killian.

But then he looks at Merlin, feeling the warmth from the mulled wine stretching out to his fingertips as he watches Merlin’s chest rise and fall steadily. Arthur stands there, perfectly still, just watching Merlin doze. When his gaze sweeps back up to the hard angles of Merlin’s face, he frowns, noticing the depressions under Merlin’s eyes.

“When was the last time you got a good night sleep?” he murmurs, resisting the urge to lean down and run his knuckles over the dark stubble at Merlin’s jaw. “When was the last time you spent more than five hours away from your lab?”

Merlin remains motionless in sleep.

Rooted in place, he stares at Merlin. He thinks of how Merlin’s tiny flat is in the opposite corner of town. He thinks of the long walk to the bus stop. He thinks of the 34 bus that probably has stopped running because of the storm. He thinks of the whirling snow that’s breathtaking to watch from inside a warm flat, but brutal to soldier through. He thinks of the deep circles under Merlin’s eyes.

“Ok, buddy, let’s go,” he whispers. Bending down, he scoots his arms under Merlin’s body, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other against the backs of his knees. He hauls him up, cradling him against his chest, feeling the warm weight braced against his body, smiling at the heavy bundle of Merlin in his arms.

Merlin stirs; for one precarious minute, it looks like he might wake up and ruin the moment by flailing wildly and tumbling out of Arthur’s arms. But Arthur clenches his shoulder tightly and Merlin just makes a snuffling sound, rubbing his cheek against the fabric of Arthur’s Oxford.

Navigating away from the dimly lit living room, he manoeuvres the hallway without stumbling over the three pairs of shoes he encounters, and finally struggles into his own darkened bedroom.

As gingerly as possible in his warmly tipsy state, he lays Merlin on his king-size bed.

“I’d always imagined you’d be awake the first time you made it into my bed,” he mutters softly.

Merlin rolls over onto his side, giving his back to Arthur as he re-curls into a foetal position.

Arthur sighs, feeling the lateness of the hour under his skin, in his muscles that are protesting just a little more than they should for having had to carry Merlin across his flat. He shucks off his shirt, trousers, and socks. Left only in his boxers, he shivers and pulls open the blinds, so he can watch the dance of snow from the bed. Then, with only a small amount of manhandling, he manoeuvres Merlin, still fully dressed, under the duvet. Merlin huffs a little, but remains asleep.

Carefully he pushes Merlin towards the other side of the bed. He certainly doesn’t want Merlin to think Arthur is making a move on him. Because he isn’t. Not now. He’s been waiting. He’ll keep waiting for the right moment, and the moment when Merlin happens to be passed out from too much mulled wine and over-exhaustion is most definitely _not_ the right moment. He is simply looking after his good friend, who happens to be too drunk and over-exhausted to make it back to his own flat.

The sheets are cool and smooth, and Merlin’s too far away to provide any body heat. Arthur shivers again and rolls onto his side, turning his back on Merlin. He doesn’t think he can look at the line of his jaw or his lips for much longer without getting incredibly hard and being unable to sleep. So he stares at the bright frenzy of snowflakes.

  
Arthur floats awake to a wall of warmth at his back, and a hand roving over the muscles of his abdomen. He stiffens, startles, and only relaxes a fraction when a familiar voice shushes him. “Arthur, it’s only me.” The view framed by his window is no longer the dreamy brightness of swirling white specks catching and reflecting the city’s light; instead, strong, healthy daylight gleams on rooftops bedecked with thick layers of snow.

Merlin shifts closer to him, sliding his jean-clad leg between Arthur’s.

“Arthur, why am I in your bed?” His voice is tinged with that high pitch that usually signals confusion.

“Merlin, I’m sad you don’t remember our night of passion.” He aims for wryness, but his words come out rather breathy.

“Well, it couldn’t have been that great seeing as I’m still fully dressed,” Merlin laughs. “Leave it to you to only think of yourself.”

Arthur joins in Merlin’s laughter and rolls onto his back, meeting Merlin’s blue eyes, noticing with a tightening in his chest the crinkles around them.

Neither speaks for a few minutes.

“It looked so cold outside, and you looked rather cold and tired on my couch, and I didn’t want you trying to find a bus while drunk and in the snow, or even worse, getting some ridiculous idea that you could walk home in that blizzard and falling into a ditch and freezing to death. Then I’d have to tell your mum that I was the thoughtless bastard who sent you home in snow and below freezing temperatures.”

“Huh.”

The sides of Merlin’s lips quirk up. “I liked your first explanation better.”

“Yeah?” Arthur’s pulse shifts into high gear, shucking the last remnants of sleep, pounding through his body. “Well then, maybe I should show you that I know how to think of people other than myself.”

He fingers flick down to toy with the hem of Merlin’s voluminous sweater.

“How you gonna do that?”

“First, by divesting you of this ridiculous sweater. Then we’ll see about the rest of your clothing.”

Merlin grins at him and slides forward to close the space between them. Arthur can smell sleep and the traces of wine on his breath. And he thinks he must be absolutely smitten because he’s actually enjoying Merlin’s morning breath which should be gross, but just somehow isn’t. And then he stops thinking as he surges up to meet Merlin’s chapped lips, to tangle his fingers in Merlin’s bedhead. Merlin twines into him, pressing his thigh against Arthur’s aching stiffness, running hands over Arthur’s naked ribs.

Arthur rolls onto his back; Merlin rather inelegantly climbs on top of him, straddling his hips, smiling that goofy and wicked grin of his. “Sheesh, you really can’t do anything right, can you? I guess I’ll have to take this off myself.” Merlin yanks his sweater over his head and tosses it into Arthur’s laughing face. His tight Rockband shirt follows, and then Arthur is caught up in his bare chest, spreading his hands over the pale skin, mapping this new territory.

“Hey, you okay?” Merlin says softly. “You got all quiet on me.”

Arthur looks up, meets his eyes, and the seriousness of the moment disintegrates when Merlin beams at him crookedly.

“This is going to be the best snow day ever,” Arthur laughs, unable to keep the stupid grin off his face. Merlin hums in agreement, sweeping down, kissing him soundly, his mouth full of promise.  



End file.
